The Happy Consolation of My Routines

By nature, I am a person who loves to provoke change. 

I love to create something out of nothing.  Plowing new ground is part of my DNA.  All my life, I have initiated new things.  Whether it is a performing arts program at church, a class reunion, a new program for women’s spiritual life or just a brand new type of therapy group – I love to create something new. Let me build an effective machine!  (God forbid, I do not mean that literally!  My mechanical IQ is beyond embarrassing.)

Even looking at a blank Word document is an exhilarating challenge for me.  There is nothing written.  Soon there will be something. (NO telling whether the “something” will be worth reading, but that’s not the point!)

I chose a profession where initiating personal change is the essence of what I do every day, hour after hour.  And to stay effective in my work (ok… and life), I have to constantly monitor my own internal and external world and open myself to deep personal change.  I put out a lot of energy to provoke change.  Alright.  You get the idea. 

Paradoxically, I am deeply infatuated with my routines.

Aaaahhhhh… my routines.  *happy sigh*… The comfort, the warmth, the grounding, the happy rhythm of my routines.  While instigating change as a lifestyle, there is deep consolation in the nurturing predictability of my routines.  They provide a harmonizing counterpart to the energetic chaos of change.

Every morning in my office before work, I go through the routine of making myself a huge mug (and I do mean huge – a full 32 ounces!) of decaf Constant Comment tea.  I drink its warmth and soothing flavor while seeing my first two clients of the day (usually starting at 7 a.m. – yes, decaf and no, you do NOT want to ever experience me with caffeine in my system… even that early!)

Sunday evenings at 7:00 begins our family’s sacred ritual of watching AFV.  All three of us smashed together on our black leather love seat eat popcorn and pretzels and laugh uproariously at people falling off trampolines and at men getting hit in the crotch. It’s almost spiritual.

Most nights after work, my husband and I drive to the gym.  It is only 15 minutes there and 15 minutes back, but we use that time to find out about each others’ days, hold hands, listen, encourage, give feedback and keep connected – ok… and sometimes have needed spats (I mean “discussions”) – in the middle of the demands of work and family.  That, my friends, is a worthy routine.

Most Saturday mornings will find me doing coffee at Jazzy Bagels in Gresham with my dear friend Ruth drinking cup after cup of their decaf (remember the previous warning?) and eating their sesame seed bagels (or cinnamon raisin – or both – depending on my mood).  We watch people walking their dogs of all shapes, sizes and breeds in downtown Gresham.  We laugh about parenting our unique and beautiful teenage daughters.  We talk about life, family, faith, culture, work – there’s nothing off limits with Ruth.  She is a friend of 29 years and we have both been through hell and high water, together and apart. Ruth is pure gold.  Her insight and personal quality never fail to enrich me.  And how could I not value this routine??

Since I was about 7 years old, I have looked forward to the moment I crawl into bed and snuggle up with a good book.  As a kid, I remember crawling underneath my sheets with a flashlight because I just had to read a little bit more – and it was past “lights out”.  To this day I savor reading a good book before drifting off to sleep.  Most often fiction.  (Well written, pleeease.)  Not usually educational or intentionally for personal growth.  Sometimes inspiring.  Sometimes funny.  Most often just a very good read.   Another routine that brings me joy and happy rest in the middle of demanding days.

Now it’s Sunday afternoon.  I have just initiated something new in writing this blog.  I forged new territory! I created something out of nothing!!  I have provoked change on this empty Word document!!!

Uh-oh. 

I need a routine for Sunday afternoons.

The Server

Imagine with me… 

You enter a very upscale, fine-dining restaurant. (For my family’s current financial status, this is truly imaginary...)  You are seated at a table in a quiet corner with someone you love.  You scan the menu while conversing with this special person in your life.  The server takes your order.  He is efficient, quiet and unobtrusive.  You go back to your intimate and deep conversation.  The conversation takes all your attention, but you are drinking from your glass of water and sipping on a glass of fine wine.  Your meal is served and it looks delectable.  You begin to eat.  Yum!  Fantastic!  Meaningful exchange continues between you and your loved one.  Things take an amusing turn and you find yourself giggling as dessert is served.  Finally, dinner is paid for and you leave the restaurant with warm, happy memories of a delicious meal and a rewarding time together.

A perfect scenario.

What happened during that meal that made it so perfect and that you were only vaguely aware of?

Without you ever even noticing...

Your silverware was spotless.

Your water glass was always full.

Just the right condiments were made available.

Each course was served at just the right time.

Your food was hot.

Dishes magically disappeared when they were not needed.

Your dessert was set before you with perfect timing.

Your after-dinner coffee was kept full and warm.

The check was made available and payment was made with no wait.

(Let’s take a moment to enjoy this fantasy about perfect service… Lord knows it’s infrequent enough to remain in the realm of fantasy.)

Bottom line:  Your server was so incredibly skilled that he went virtually unnoticed.

This server is my husband.

Hold on.  I’ll explain in a minute.

Some of you may not have (to your own real misfortune) had the privilege of meeting or really getting to know the man I am married to.  That is very sad.  Let me help.

My husband is a man of integrity, wisdom, compassion, humor, depth and love.  He is the deeply involved and supportive father of three children. He is a faithful, loyal and helpful friend to many.   He currently works as the Senior Chaplain at Portland Rescue Mission.  He loves his work and he does it with skill.  He provides varying levels of pastoral care and support to a staff of about 90, to more than 60 residents in drug and alcohol recovery and to several hundred homeless guests that eat meals and use the services of the Mission.  It is demanding, challenging and often dangerous.

He is amazing in the most literal sense of the word.

He is also the husband of a woman who has been fighting cancer for a year.  This has not been fun.  For either of us.

I have been sick.

I have been needy. (Hold the sarcasm.)

I have required a lot of extra effort and care. (No snide remarks.)

He has performed household responsibilities that I usually address.

He has had to parent through treacherous waters.

He has had to take up a lot of slack.

He has adapted almost constantly.

He has plugged holes when the dam started to leak.

I have been deeply cocooned as I have fought for survival.

I have not been very attentive or very available to him.

I have often fought the depression that comes with long term illness.

I have been personally absent.

He has missed me.

I have done everything I possibly can this last year… but…

He has carried a very, very heavy load.

And here’s the crazy thing:  He has made it look EASY.

Enter – the server.  My husband.

He is quiet about it.  He is unobtrusive.  He does not toot his own horn, he just meets the need.  He morphs to solve the current “crisis of the day”. He puts his head down and just keeps moving forward. He reflexively rises to meet the demand at hand.  He does not parade this adaptable posture of service… because he’s hardly aware of it.

And I have hardly been aware of it. His kindness to me has been offered with such insight, skill and sensitivity that it could have gone largely unnoticed.  Just like the server.

Over the last couple weeks – wonder of wonders – I have actually started feeling better for the first time in about 3 months. I am just emerging from the cocoon and looking around at a world I have not been fully aware of for over a year.  It is just beginning to dawn on me the amazing love and compassion shown to me by this man… and the toll it has taken on him.  Not surprisingly, just as I am getting more on my feet, my husband is becoming aware of the profound emotional and physical fatigue that has accompanied his constant service.  He can start letting up a bit… assessing the losses and deep weariness that is a natural response to being “on” for a whole year of crisis… and somewhat alone in it.

It is hard to express the vast gratitude I have for a husband of this caliber… for his gentle kindness to me at a huge personal cost.  I am well aware of the shortage of men in this world who will serve with such selflessness.   I am, of all women, most blessed.

The waiter has served a wonderful meal with expertise and genuine care.

And HE, my friends, deserves an extraordinarily large tip.

Ten Years Ago Yesterday

Ten years ago yesterday our family pulled up deep roots from Medford, Oregon and moved to Portland.

June 11, 2001.  It was a warm, cloudy day.  The U-Haul was packed and ready to go that morning – sitting in the front yard.   My distraught 6 year old daughter continued her threats to superglue herself to the side of the house. (Precious.  She was born for theater.)  We prayed together (while I cried) in front of my favorite house I have ever lived in…

and was now leaving.

Back story:

My husband had resigned his pastoral position a few months before from a church we loved.  Our 2 oldest kids had left the nest.  Our life in Medford was rich, full, challenging and basically happy. We were known and loved by people we knew and loved.  For years, my husband and I had both wanted to go to graduate school, but we knew it would take a move to a different city to get the degrees we wanted. He was 46. I was 36.  It was now or never. 

Sometimes I still can’t believe we did it.  I can’t believe we lived through it.  It was a huge gamble – a huge risk.  The cost was extremely high.  The transition was volcanic.  It was violent.  The first year about killed me. (If I am exaggerating, I am not aware of it. Really.)

In that first year…

We bought investment real estate (for the first time) – a duplex – and lived in it to make ends meet.

We built an apartment in the basement of a duplex (also a first time experience).

We lived 3 different places in the first 3 months after moving.

I did full-blown panic attacks.

The renters in our house in Medford threatened legal action.

We poured all available financial resources into the duplex.

Then our sewer backed up one day and ended up costing $12,000 to fix.

A drug house was just on the other side of our back yard fence.

Our daughter was diagnosed with significant medical issues.

I was down for 2 full months with viral pneumonia.

We pulled our daughter out of a horribly chaotic first grade classroom in March and I home schooled the rest of the year.

I was profoundly homesick.

We had no faith community for the first 10 months we were here.

I had very few friends and was extremely lonely.

It felt like a nightmare.

I plunged into a deep depression (think: trying desperately not to start rocking in a dark corner) and finally took anti-depressants for the first time in my life.

This is the short list.

I’m serious.  The first year about killed me.  

Moving our family was like transplanting a full oak grown tree. Labor intensive. Cumbersome.  Awkward. Messy. Weighty. Needing heavy equipment.  And then you wait and wonder if the tree will live through the shock.

Well, it did.

The next years had a lot of blood, sweat and tears as well, but we slowly settled in… and began to thrive.

JR started grad school – and loved it.

Elizabeth’s medical condition slowly improved.

Our duplex helped us stay afloat financially.

We found a church that allowed us to serve and heal.

We found a high-quality elementary school that helped us teach our daughter well.

We started to make friends.

I started grad school – and REALLY loved it.

Our life here in Portland has continued to grow and thrive. It is home.  It is now a wealth instead of a wasteland. This list of blessings from the last several years is long.  (Have you noticed I think in lists??)   

We have a wide and deep circle of treasured friends.

JR received a Master of Arts in Pastoral Studies in 2003.

I received a Master of Arts in Counseling in 2007.

We led an outreach team to India and were deeply enriched.

Our daughter has become deeply involved in a fantastic Christian theater troupe.

We have paid off some of the debts we accrued with the transition.

Elizabeth had the privilege of singing and dancing in the Keller Auditorium.

JR is incredibly happy and fulfilled in his job at Portland Rescue Mission.

I have been blessed with a thriving private practice that brings me immense satisfaction.

Our family has survived my fight with cancer.

My fight with cancer has highlighted the love and support network we have here in Portland.  (Yes, yes, you dear Southern Oregon peeps have been a substantial support, as well!)

THIS is truly the short list.  Of the short list.  Because the blessing list is very, very, VERY long.

Ten years.  The oak tree is thriving. It has endured some gale-force storms over the last 10 years.  Life is far from perfect.  But (as always) what doesn’t kill you absolutely makes you stronger.  So the oak tree stands…  

By the gentle, sustaining and loving mercy of God.

"No More Night..."

My brother had to put his dog down yesterday.  “Mighty” was a timid, sweet Chihuahua who accidentally got into some de-con at a friend’s house.  

Sometimes the acute suffering of a human life becomes a very heavy thing for me.  I love my job.  Thrive on it, actually.  But sometimes I come home from my job with a heavy residue of sadness from the pain that I am exposed to hour after hour, day after day.  Today, talking to my brother and hearing the story of saying goodbye to his little companion of several years pretty much put my already currently fragile ecosystem on tilt.

My brother has lived an unusually sad life... 

Horrible multi-faceted abuse from infancy into toddlerhood by his birth family

Adoption by my family at 3 years old

Painful peer rejection through childhood and adolescence

Drug abuse

Prison time

Three mental illness diagnoses

Constant metal health med regulation (and disregulation)

On oxygen for COPD

Diabetes and heart disease

Lives alone in a trailer park…

Now without Mighty.

And I am sad.  Very sad.

We were never built to be fully and deeply at home in this broken mess.  And some days I feel this very acutely.  My brother will be fine.  Today, talking to him, he cried way less than I did during the conversation.  But he is a flashpoint of my deep weariness with human suffering right now.

Here is what else I know about suffering – it is a gift.  It is a “severe mercy”.  It breaks through my stupor of a drug-like search for happiness where it cannot be found.  It redirects my search to an Eternal Source.  Others have paved the way in this search…

“And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight…”

-- Horatio G. Spafford (who knew what he was talking about – read his story if you don’t know it http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horatio_Spafford)

If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

 --  St. Paul (who knew what he was talking about – read his story if you don’t know it 2 Cor. 11:23-28)

I want to have a very loose grip on this world. 

I want to release the demand I often have that this broken world make me fully happy, gratified and comforted.

I want to let the discomfort and pain of the temporal existence drive me to an Eternal Comfort – a deeply refreshing Living Water.

I want to live in light of the Hope of all being made utterly right.

David Phelps- No More Night

Scars

Definition of Keloid Scar: 

“Keloids are firm, rubbery lesions or shiny, fibrous nodules, and can vary from pink to flesh-colored or red to dark brown in color. A keloid scar is benign, non-contagious, and sometimes accompanied by severe itchiness and pain, and changes in texture. In severe cases, it can affect movement of skin.”

This is not pretty.  “Firm, rubbery lesions.”  Yuck.  “Fibrous nodules.”  What?  “Pink, red, dark brown.” Ugh.  My endocrinologist described her own personal keloid scar as “an earthworm attached to the skin of her abdomen.”  Delightful. 

The upside?  “Non-contagious”. You can freely associate with me without the threat of an earthworm attaching itself to your abdomen or (in my case) neck. J  

I told my head-neck surgeon that I tend to develop keloid scars.  (No, this is not the first of these beauties I have sported in my lifetime.)  He told me before surgery that he has never (in several decades of practice) had even one of his patients form this type of scar after a neck dissection (my second surgery).  I just had to be special, didn’t I?

So, my cancer surgeries left a scar.  A keloid.  It indeed does itch regularly… and sting… and affect the movement of my skin.  And it’s in a fairly obvious location. 

Let’s take a better look.

So there is my “firm, rubbery lesion”.  My own personal earthworm. 

There is a part of me that wishes that the incision site was healing into a polite, thin, unnoticeable, white line on my neck (like it is supposed to).  It would certainly be less gruesome.

But there is another (and much bigger) part of me that is strangely grateful.  This last year has been uglier, in many ways, than any grisly keloid scar. 

I have been deeply injured by it.

I have sobbed through it.

I have been unalterably changed by it.

And…

I have survived it.

I have been made stronger by it.

I have experienced a Living God in it.

I have been transformed by it.

And guess what!  I have been given the beautiful gift of an external and physical symbol of an internal and deeply personal alteration.   And this scar is here to stay.  My keloids never completely go away.  This one will lose its’ color with the years and will eventually flatten and widen.  It will never completely go away.  And I kind of like that.  A permanent reminder of this very significant year.  

Writing this has reminded me of the song “Scars” sung by Farrell and Farrell way back in the early 80s. (Some of you old folks will actually remember this…)   

See those scars

Precious scars

Proof of battles He brought you thru

Learn to love those old scars

For the strength they bring to you

Reminders that wounds

Are a part of His plan for you

Reminders that healing

Is a part of His plan for you.

Well.  Beautiful scars.  Beautiful firm, rubbery lesions.  Who knew, right??

Swimming Suit Shopping… For My Daughter, That Is

There are not many things in this life that I despise.  Dread.  Detest.  (Trying to avoid the “hate” word for my younger readers, here.)  But there are a few.  Here’s my short list:

·         Preparing my taxes every February and March

·         Dental work without anesthesia

·         Getting my lip waxed

·         Strident preachers

·         An I.V. that is inserted at the wrong angle

·         Picking up dog poop out of the yard after it’s rained for a week

·         Shopping for my bathing suit every year

(I think I may have just broken out in hives writing this list.)

But there is ONE thing that tops them ALL – swimming suit shopping with my teenage daughter.   And today was that day.

Let’s make a couple things clear.  First: I am usually a reasonable, flexible and fair mother.  I want (and have generally promoted) open dialogue with my children.  I have always been open to a fairly significant degree of influence from my kids.  Second:  My kids would generally agree with this assessment.

But EVERYTHING changes each spring when it’s time to shop for Lizzie’s swimming suit.   Strangely, the previous 364 days of the year cease to matter.  They are forgotten.  Discarded.  I become a monster.  A control freak.  Hyper-conservative.  A destroyer of all teenage social acceptability.   An oppressive dictator.  A mother who understands absolutely NOTHING about fashion, being 16 years old, life or the universe in general. 

I can accept this barrage of accusations that call into question my sterling character.  You know why?  Because years ago – for one day each spring – my mother morphed into that same unreasonable, crazy person.

Just a quick question:  Does not the word “SUIT” (as in “bathing SUIT”) imply the use of actual fabric, not just thread?? 

Just checkin’.

The Real "Me"?

Things are not completely as they seem.

It has been over 10 months since my first cancer surgery.

It has been almost 6 months since my second.

It has been over 4 months since radioactive treatment.

A lot of people are aware of my normal, everyday routine.  And that routine looks a lot like my “before cancer” days.

I go to work.

I am very happy at my work.

I work hard.

I banter with the barista in my local coffee shop.

I appear to have more social and relational energy than sorority girls half my age.

I throw a BIG birthday bash for my 16 year old.

I yell instructions at kids in the Green Room all week at my daughter’s theater.

I really tick off my daughter by a tough parenting decision.

I laugh with my daughter about high schooler’s antics over a spaghetti lunch.

I chat with friends about professional challenges and joys in this stage of our life.

I fly to San Diego with my husband for his work conference.

I am cheerful and sassy.

And then people tell me I am looking good.  Healthy.  Happy.

If I’m doing all this stuff (and look so dang good!), my cancer recovery is going fine.  Right??  Well, this is what they see.  And what they see is true. This is the real “me”.  I am not faking it.

Here is what a lot of people are NOT aware of:

I still sleep 10 to 12 hours a night at least 3 nights a week. 

I often stay in bed for a few more hours after I wake up on those following mornings.

I sometimes feel unsafe to drive I am so fatigued.

I consistently fight a frustrating mental fog.

I have very fragile coping skills. (Poop!)

I struggle to return emails and phone calls.

I am overwhelmed with some of the basics of life.

I feel a bit panicky if I feel even a mild time crunch.

I am pulled deeply into a cocoon of protective reserve.

I live in a posture of measuring and guarding any available shred of energy or vitality.

I am weak.

I do not like this second list.  I am embarrassed by it.  Very few people experience me in this way.  But it is also the real “me” during this season of my life.       

Living my life with integrity and raw honesty are inexpressibly high values.  By nature, I am an open person.  Why, then, do I struggle to display the second list of this temporary real “me”?   I’ll tell you why.  Because it is just plain easier to display the first list.  Easier by far.  Both for me and for others. I function better and feel happier, people are more comfortable and frankly, it’s not always appropriate for me to vomit my latest discouragement onto the next poor, unsuspecting soul who dares inquire.

And here’s another thing: the longevity factor.  After this many months, to consistently voice my chronic discomfort gets OLD.  Both for me AND the listener.  It’s been MONTHS, people!  Months of medical updates.  Months of some good news and a lot of bad news.  Months of kind support offered and taken.  Months of feeling crappy and wanting desperately to say, “I feel great! Thank you for asking.”  Months of friends waiting to hear the same. It gets so very old – like an old scratched 33 album when the needle gets stuck.

So I go through my days looking and acting “normal”.  (*insert smart aleck comment here*)  And a part of me is deeply grateful for the ability to do so. And part of me wants to shout to the world that things are not completely as they seem. (And maybe this blog is my own personal shout out!)

And I know I am NOT alone.

What about my dear friend who lost her husband 2 years ago and everyone thinks she should be over it and start dating again?  What about my delightful former student who pastors a small, rural church and no one knows how disillusioned and painfully close to resignation he is?  What about my outwardly well adjusted, professionally successful friend who has told me she has lost all hope and no one in her world realizes that she has a plan, a means and a clear intent to take her own life?  What about my friend who is profoundly scarred by cruelty from church leadership and no one knows that she can’t re-enter a church without involuntarily feeling sick to her stomach? What about my friend who lives with the chronic, painful affects of MS and rarely mentions the toll it takes?  What about the friend who I go to church with who’s perfectly kept secret is that her husband had an affair 4 years ago and she’s still not sure if marriage will make it?

Here is what I know:

Everyone – and I mean everyone – has unseen pain. 

Pain – emotional, physical and spiritual – can take a long, long time to heal. 

Genuine suffering is rarely public.

In my public life, things are not completely as they seem. 

And you know, after writing this, I believe I feel a bit more normal!  (*insert second smart aleck comment here*)